Love in Two Verses
by Cairnsy
Summary: Seto and Jounouchi celebrate their ‘anniversary’. Seto x Jounouchi.


Author's notes: This fic is deliberately vague in parts. Some things are not spelled out, as the idea was to portray a feel for the relationship as opposed to a 'paint by numbers' guide. Big thanks to Misura for the beta. 

Extra note: Tsutsuijis, Ajisia, Tsubaki etc are all types of Japanese flowers. Basically, if it's in Japanese, it's most likely some sort of flower or plant . 

**LOVE IN TWO VERSES.**

_VERSE ONE: Ophelia Drowning._

When the apartment is empty, adrift from anger and only lightly bathed in air diluted by alcohol, Katsuya likes to play with flowers. Tsutsujis line the windowsill of his bedroom; pretty shades of pink and pretty shades of white made somewhat less so by the polluted sunlight that streaks through translucent petals, fading away the colour into a more familiar wash of muteness. The Ajisia on his desk have not suffered a similar fate, for they do not require the dedication of sunlight as much as the Tsutsujis do. Nothing defiles the brilliant flowers that shine one moment blue, lavender the next. There is a collection of Tsubaki stashed beneath his bed, vibrant colours a welcomed contrast to the other inhabitants there: a mouldy half eaten sandwich, three odd socks and last month's maths assignment that his 'dog' ate. 'Dark and dangerous' is not the recommended home for Tsubaki, which would be more at home on top of his wardrobe. But Katsuya had kicked them under the bed by accident several weeks ago, and he has not yet been brave enough to take on the mutant sandwich to retrieve them. 

Windowsill. Desk. Bed. Under, over. Closet. Bookcase. Floor. 

Flowers, flowers everywhere. 

They are not the types of flowers that are sold on every corner of Domino during spring, enticing with their scent if not always their natural design, nor are his flowers of preference in need of watering or much general care. Katsuya is not very good at looking after things that require a lot of attention; although he is not really all that good at looking after things that require hardly any attention, either. 

But that hardly matters when he is stretched languidly on his back on the floor of his room surrounded by flowers, socked feet beating a silent rhythm against the door of his wardrobe. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that he has lost himself in a world where hues of white and purple and yellow tangle with greens that alternate between rich mosses and brilliant emeralds. A world far away from grey Domino, which threatens to drown all with its false promises and broken hopes. Katsuya would possibly like this dream world a tad more if the wash of colour did not make him somewhat nauseous, and reminded him a little too much of the first and only time he had ever got high, years ago when he was too young to realise that artificial happiness was an amazingly poor substitute for the real thing. 

Thump, da thump. Thump. THUMP. His feet are as tuneless as Katsuya himself is, but that is not the problem it could be, as Katsuya always borders on being tone deaf when it comes to listening to anything, especially socked feet that sing and lectures that decry. A small, barely recognisable hum joins in as Katsuya picks up some Ajisai, studying them with a critical eye before putting them back down again with a gentleness that belies his sudden distaste. He is sick of purple. Everywhere he turns the colour is there to blind him with its superiority. Yami. Otogi. 

Kaiba. 

For a city that has no established monarchy, there is far too much royalty in Domino. 

It is not until he reaches for the snow blossoms that he realises that he has rolled partly onto the Hasu, crushing them ever so slightly. Katsuya does not panic, which is fairly admirable, considering that he has a habit of panicking over almost everything. Of course, the flowers are simply colourful etchings on small pieces of almost indecently sheer squares of rice paper, so squashing flat something that is already by nature flattened is not quite as traumatic as it could possibly have been. 

Katsuya still mourns the way their pretty petals have been irreversibly creased, for the rice paper is perfect because of its easiness to mould, allowing it to fall prey to even the slightest of misstouches. They have not been abandoned by usefulness, however, and he gentle cradles the flowers that supposedly smell like sunset but that Katsuya has always associated with dusky moments of solitude. Then, with a flicker of fingers that are well versed in many things, he flips the rice paper carefully in half, then again. Quick, delicate. Fold. Bend. Weave. He is talented enough to hide the creases if he wishes, but flaws are sometimes just as important as perceived perfection. 

And, as Katsuya slips in a tiny piece of paper with tiny Kanji written on it before completing the last fold of the small origami star with pink flowers on it, he thinks that Ryuuji should be allowed to show his flaws sometimes, even if that sometimes is only ever in Katsuya's bedroom. 

Katsuya sits up then, gently placing the star in one of the boxes that has been ignored up until now. They are pretty boxes in the way the petals of the Tsutsujis are pretty, perfect colours and pictures corrupted by the complexities of the personalities they symbolise. Ryuuji's box has a picture of a crown on it, but not one that shines silver or gold. Instead, the crown is tarnished in a black that drips from the tips, pooling like blood along the bottom edge of the container. It is already half full of stars, the ones at the bottom are unmarred and speak words of hate and jealousy, but they are drowned out now by those that now rest on top of them, perfectly shaped stars made of imperfect paper. These ones whisper instead words of shared sorrow, of an understanding that cannot be spoken aloud if Katsuya is to retain his dignity and Ryuuji his mask. 

There are other boxes and there are other stars. Honda's box is brightly coloured, vaguely distorted happy faces drawn on it, as though they are a merely a reflection as opposed to the real thing. Yami and Yugi share one box, but a duel card ripped violently in half covers the top. Those stars are wrapped the tightest, hiding away from the world the way Katsuya thinks that the pair are the strongest people he has ever met, yet fears them ever discovering that simple fact in case they decide as a result that they no longer need him. Bakura's is deliberately plain and nearly empty, while Anzu's has streaks of violent red slashing through pink ballerina shoes. 

Each star is his voice, speaking, screaming, whispering words that he cannot say verbally to his friends, so instead he hides the tiny pieces of thought within the stars. His jealousy of Anzu. How he hates Honda sometimes because he reminds Katsuya of a past that he can't quite let go of. The brutal truth of how he wishes he'd never met Bakura, because of the evil spirit that lives within him. 

And there are other boxes and there are other stars. His teachers. Serenity. Mum. Dad. The hot woman who lives three doors down whom Katsuya suspects might, just possibly, be a hooker. If she is, he knows what his first real pay check that doesn't have to be spent on bills or school fees will be put towards. 

Kaiba is the only one who has two boxes. 

Selfish prick. 

The first box differs in no way from any of the others, although Kaiba's box speaks of annoyance and frustration and ANGER wrapped in brilliant green vines and mosses as opposed to overly floral patterns. It is the second box that the others murmur quietly to each other about when they think Katsuya is not listening. On the outside, there is nothing in style to distinguish it from Bakura's. The colour is slightly different, but the effect is still the same. Plain. Simple. 

But this is Kaiba, and naturally nothing can ever be 'plain' or 'simple' with the anything but CEO. 

The box is filled to the brim. But not with stars. 

The murmurs grow louder. Katsuya pretends not to hear them. 

Instead, he reaches for a piece of paper just to his left. This is not rice paper, nor is it cheap. Instead, he now holds ridiculously expensive origami paper within his grip – the proper kind that doesn't crease quite as easily as the rice paper, and is much more glossy. Decorated in cherry blossoms, it is the kind that American tourists just love, and often buy as a gift. It is also the tackiest thing that Katsuya has ever bought. 

And it suits Kaiba perfectly. 

When he folds the paper this time, he doesn't flip first, but folds. Fold. Divide. Flip. Pull. The design is more intricate, yet he is just as nimble creating these as he is the stars. 

There are, after all, already 364 Lover's Knots in this second box of Kaiba's. 

This one will be the final one, however, although he does not put any extra effort into it as he possibly could. When it comes down to writing his final thoughts, there is a hesitation - not in doubt - but in how to completely inscribe his thoughts of the last year. How does one summarise on a tiny piece of paper barely two inches long the emotions of a one night stand that promised to be more but ended up merely being a complicated game that never once again stepped inside a bedroom? How does one portray hatred, anger and acceptance with only a pen as a weapon? 

How? When it comes to Kaiba, disturbingly easy. 

You lose. 

Because Kaiba has. Katsuya hasn't quit the game, he's simply moving past it. 

Kaiba can't. 

Somehow, this victory is sweeter than any he's ever had at a duelling arena. 

As he finishes with the message and as he finishes with the Knot, he places the completed 'thought' in the box, replacing the lid covered in tacky pink hearts that sparkle brightly under the fluorescent lights. 

In a moment, he will wander down to the post office and have it delivered to Kaiba's expensive yet wonderfully tacky mansion. 

And Katsuya will have won. 

Or perhaps this is simply a different kind of drowning. 

_VERSE TWO: Pre-determining the Pawn._

There is a chessboard. A tangled tale of ivory and opal, set upon by carved wooden figurines that battle through wit and luck, it foresees the victories of all that play upon it. Ask the Rook, set far in the left corner, who it believes will win any duel that it participates in, and the answer is always given with resounding certainty. Suited in black, even the smallest of pieces know that they are forever amongst the victorious. Their gleaming opponents have never even tasted a flickering of chance. 

To the right of the chessboard is a glass of wine. Red. Prussian. It's a fanciful tale that the best wine comes from France, a whitewash of marketing serving to contradict truth. 

To the left, there is a silver handgun, placed gracefully on a stretch of velvet fabric. Ornamental in design, it has never yet been used. 

And there is a pawn on the floor; elegantly white against a carpet that is shot through with strands of silver and blue. 

Seto doesn't pick it up, instead reaches for his wine and sips it with a casual familiarity. There are always more pawns for him to play with. 

Both within this room and without. 

Calloused hands that starkly contrast with a crisp suit organise the pieces, deftly placing them into pre-determined positions that would baffle even the most novice of chess players, but Seto has never been one to play games in a traditional way. 

By the time he is done, all the black pieces that identify with him victory have been swept aside, leaving alone in isolation, ivory. Seto studies the remaining pieces with a hint of disdain, an iced gaze sweeping across carved features and immobile bodies. The pieces form a half crescent on the board; the Queen heading a curved possession that includes a Knight, Bishop, Rook, and which is book-ended by the King. 

There are three pawns scattered throughout the line-up. Seto has always been one to believe in the benefits of stacking the odds. 

When he picks up the gun, he points it first at the Queen. She remains the most dangerous piece on any chessboard, free to move as she pleases. A spiked crown that makes her almost indistinguishable at times from the King, she never less could not be more different. He despises the Queen. If not for her, he would never have had to taste the bitterness that is 'victory'. 

It possibly seems strange to any onlookers – the Knight, the Bishop, the Rook, the Pawns – that Seto sees victory as a form of failure. Yet, before the Queen entered his life, dressed in black leather and with the same, spiked hairstyle, Seto had never been familiar with the concept. Victory was for those who won. However, winning was something done only by those who had a chance of losing. 

Seto never played games to win. There was never any reason to, given that the conclusion was always forgone. He played for the power, the prestige. 

The Queen taught him the meaning of victory through defeat. And even though Seto has conquered since, he can only ever now be victorious, as opposed to merely playing a game. 

He cocks the gun and then pulls the trigger, remorselessly. 

There is no sound. No clang or clatter, no explosion. 

The Queen stands proud. It has survived the first round of this twisted game of Russian roulette. 

As a small, harsh smile curves unnaturally Seto's lips, he cannot say that he is surprised. 

The first of the three pawns is next, and Seto's smile hardens. Useless, sacrificial. The glint in his eyes take on an almost madness, and he knows that, even if this pawn is not the one to fall, one of its siblings will. There is no place in a game for weak pieces, that the pawns are even on the board is only because of his own design. He is growing tired of his current pawns, however. 

And one of them in particular. 

There is no sound. No clang or clatter, no explosion. 

Oh, well. There are still two more left on the board. 

He aims at the Knight next, strong and steady, yet without the intelligence and flair of the Queen, whose innate flexibility allows for so much more. He hardly focuses on the piece, knowing it more as a sidekick that occasionally complicates as opposed to a potentially manipulatable piece. Seto does not deny that the piece most certainly has its place on the board, but instead sees a predictability in its moves that refutes the need for much thought. 

There is no sound. No clang or clatter, no explosion. 

Seto hardly cares. IT would have been rather anti-climatic if the Knight had been the one to fall, after all. 

Pawn number 2 stands before him now, unremarkable in comparison to the imposing Knight and Rook that tower above it on each side. 

_"Yeah, well. Guess what, Seto? This little game of yours has fucked you up as much as it has me – bet you never planned on that, huh?" _

"Didn't you ever think for just one moment that perhaps you weren't the only one who was 'playing'?" 

"You think I'm in a lose-lose situation? I thought you would have seen that there is one way that I automatically gain victory, Kaiba." 

He shoots, his aim slightly wayward as he attempts to drown out the voice that has suddenly decided to invade his thoughts. That the shot would have gone wide turns out to be inconsequential, as there is sound, no clang or clatter. 

No explosion. 

The next sip he takes of his wine is to drown a heated anger that threatens to destroy his hold over the game. Even though the Rook is not the one deserving of his fury, he never the less turns it on the piece, and without hesitating for a moment fires the gun. 

There is no sound. No clang or clatter, no explosion. 

An empty result devoid of any real meaning, yet it abates his temper. Seto finds himself able to concentrate in a more typical fashion when he turns to the Bishop, its pristine white robes flowing onto the chessboard with a static precision. A portrayal of innocence that fails to account the piece's devastating strength, it is a piece often overlooked when aside its more formidable compatriots. A supporting character in a game played often by others, it still brings a certain usefulness and strength that cannot be ignored. 

Not for a moment has he ever thought that, perhaps at age 21, he is starting to get too old to play games. 

If Seto was the kind who pondered the aesthetic value of anything, he would acknowledge that the piece was the prettiest of those on the board, a rare combination of both elegance and deadly intent. But as he fires the pistol once more, beauty is the last thing on his mind, washed out instead by shades of disinterested red. 

No sound. No clatter. No explosion. 

No shattered Bishop, splintered beyond repair. 

The game suddenly becomes very interesting. For, there are now only two pieces left, the last of the pawns, and the King that rules all. There is something poetic about how all this will be decided by the last two pieces, and even Seto can appreciate on some level the morbid symmetry of it all. 

The game had started with a King and his pawn, and it appears that it will end in a similar fashion. 

And Kaiba does not lose. He does not EVER lose. 

There is a range of emotions and memories that Seto could focus on as he presses the barrel of the gun against the bob of the pawn's head, his intentions undiluted. He supposes he could reflect on the bored evening when paperwork and buffoons had inspired a plot that was less passion and more precise deconstruction of a new pawn's character. He could even, given the vaguely masochistic mood he is in, contemplate when exactly he had started to lose his grip on this game, allowing his reign to become corrupted by negligence and circumstance. 

Yet, instead his thoughts drift to one simple afternoon, before the pawn had realised it was being played and was instead only a mass of confusion and wariness. They had sat before this same chessboard, and with an arrogance that was inbred, Seto had icily declared the ridiculous nature of pawns in chess, and how their weak design and sacrificial nature made them ineffectual. Their whole purpose was to be abused and to set other pieces up for victory, how could they then be truly appreciated or feared by any opponent with half a brain? 

There is a touch of finality in his eyes as he slowly pulls the trigger, a smirk in place that concludes instead of anticipating. 

"Eh. I might not know much about chess, but I think you're underestimating the little guys, Kaiba." Words long since spoken seem to suddenly echo in the room. "Sacrificial maybe, but at least they're not always hiding, like the King. Oh, I know he's supposed to be the 'big guy' and all that, but when you really look at it, he spends the entire game running away. The pawns, though? They don't care if they're running straight into a battle they have no chance of winning." 

There is no sound. 

"And you know what, even though it doesn't happen often, the King doesn't always beat all the little midgets." 

No clatter or clang. 

"And sometimes, just sometimes, it is the pawn that checkmates the King." 

No explosion. 

His smirk does not falter, not when the pawn fails to fall to a bullet that remains lodged in the last indent of the gun, not when he turns the weapon on the last remaining piece, knowing that the game has already been lost before he even fires the gun for the last time. 

He does not know anymore which he prefers more: victory or defeat. 

The resulting explosion is almost deafening. 

And then, there is only quiet. 

There is a chessboard. Made with the finest tools and forged by the most talented of hands, it is a testament of skill and arrogance blended in black and white, allowing not even a hint of shaded subtlety. The players on the board stand with an almost stubborn determination, ignorance blinding them from the fact that they are still crafted with the same hands. 

To the right, there is a half empty glass of imported wine. A shimmering red that taints the world a brighter shade when consumed, it is at once both euphoric and depressing. 

And there is a pawn on the floor, carved not of ivory or pearl, but of its own making. 


End file.
